


The Minor Fall, the Major Lift

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Male Friendship, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2013-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-05 02:19:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These are two stories that form a diptych. Each was originally posted as a freestanding work on fanfiction.net, with the second as a semi-freestanding sequel to the first. I've decided to simply sandwich them here, as together they form a single complete dramatic arc. The focus is on Mycroft and Lestrade as seen through the eyes of Sherlock and John, with John as the main POV character. It's friendship-focused, with implications of Mystrade and Johnlock possible but quite intentionally non-mandatory, with a lot of ambiguity. Basically it should be possible to read these two as plain friendship stories, and the friendship is the heart of it all. Anything more is...secondary gravy. The new title is drawn from Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah." The two original titles are retained as chapter names, and are "Endless Fall" and "Something There is That Does Not Love a Wall."</p><p>Hope you like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Endless Fall

**Endless Fall**

"No, Sherlock," Mycroft said, firmly. "You will stay out of this...as will DI Lestrade. Your connection with me will only complicate matters. Allow the investigation to proceed without disruption, please." Then, turning to the arresting officers, he said, "If you'd give my umbrella to my assistant, I'd appreciate it. I doubt I'll be able to manage it at present." He smirked, ruefully. "My hands being somewhat tied."

The two Met officers exchanged glances. "Yes, sir," the younger said, dubiously. It was clear she wasn't accustomed to dealing with men whose authority seemed undiminished by handcuffs and impending incarceration. The elder, either more experienced or more able to disguise his reactions, merely placed a protective hand over the top of Mycroft's skull as he eased the taller man into the panda car.

Sherlock, scowling, surged forward, checked only when John grabbed his elbow. "They're arresting him!" he said, rounding on his friend.

"I think we all noticed that, Sherlock." John felt substantial concern for his friend, but none in particular for the elder Holmes. "Let it go. He's given you your marching orders. He won't thank you for interfering."

"I don't do what my brother tells me," Sherlock snapped. "And I don't care if he thanks me. He's just been arrested for murder—he  _needs_ me."

"Let the process work," John said, tartly. "It's not going to do him any good if anyone starts to think you're covering up for him. Leave it to the other teams—it's time to recuse yourself. You're a biased party in this."

"I'm not!" Sherlock said. "Or if anything, I'm baised against," he added, nose going up and face going sanctimonious. "It's not like Mycroft and I get along, for God's sake."

"No, of  _course_  not," John agreed, amused, as he dragged Sherlock back from the cars. "Not hardly."

"We don't!"

"You only get on well enough to work in tight-sync to manage a faked death, a three-year cover-up, and a major strike against a covert criminal organization with terrorist ties. Other than that you're clearly archenemies." John rolled his eyes, dragging Sherlock away from the area as the panda car pulled away from the kerb. "It's not going to fly, Sherlock."

"Most of that's top secret," Sherlock sniffed. "And we don't get along."

"Yeah, yeah. Smart-arse and Smarter-arse, squabbling all the way to hell together. But once you were there the two of you would diddle the devil out of his pants and trousers and head back home."

Sherlock paced a yard or two, before saying, as though bringing up a vital point, "Yes, but even with the devils' knickers and trou, we'd still be arguing."

"Family standards. Got it." John sighed. "You've still got to keep out of this for his sake. If he's innocent, someone else is going to have to prove it. Someone not named 'Holmes.'"

"He's innocent," Sherlock growled.

"Yeah? Okay, your brother. But you always did tell me he's the most dangerous man I'd ever meet. Are you so sure he didn't kill this bloke?"

"Of course I'm sure!" Sherlock snapped. He looked at John in amazed dismay. "Oh, for heaven's sake, you're not even fit to take up train-spotting: you'd mistake a freight train for a commuter express. John, if Mycroft had killed anyone—no one would know. Certainly no one would suspect him. Give the man his professional due: he's  _good_  at playing James-Bond-licensed-to-kill."

Which, John had to admit, was a point. But..."The Embassy staff were saying it was a crime of passion. Heat of the moment. Betrayed by a lover. Went in to see a member of the diplomatic staff. An hour later called in the servants to report the man was murdered. No alibi. No...no denial."

"Well, that rather cinches it, doesn't it?" Sherlock said. "Mycroft—Passion. Passion—Mycroft. No—these two concepts are entirely alien to each other. The notion of Mycroft committing murder in a fit of jealousy is like the idea of... of..." He stopped, obviously stymied for a comparison that even approached the unlikelihood of his brother being swept away on tides of homicidal sexual anguish.

Another good point. John shrugged. "Yeah. Okay. "

But in his heart of hearts, he wondered. Just a bit. Perhaps because he wanted to think that somehow, someday, some way—the Ice Man could fail, and fall, and prove merely mortal.

John's relationship with Sherlock's brother was complicated at best. It had started in suspicions, meandered briefly into an alliance to protect Sherlock—and fallen apart in the hours before the Reichenbach fall and Sherlock's apparent suicide after Mycroft's apparent betrayal had turned the world against the "world's first consulting detective." The revelations after the years of Sherlock's exile had done little, if anything, to improve things. John could forgive Sherlock. Mostly—when he squinted hard and didn't look too closely at the betrayals involved. Those betrayals, though, were substantial, and if John chose not to assign blame for them to Sherlock, then responsibility seemed, inevitably, to accrue to Mycroft.

Mycroft was easier to blame in any case. How could one not blame the British Government, who'd been here, in England, with his ever-observant CCTV cameras and his rare, but still too obtrusive attempts to care for those Sherlock had left behind grieving his presumed death? Everyone curses the faceless Powers That Be. John Watson simply had the advantage of knowing that at least one of those Powers had a face after all—a rather beaky, morose face given to supercilious smirks and the usual Holmes arrogance. Knowing that face only made the cursing that much easier.

Sherlock had his phone out, tapping in a text to someone.

"Who?" John asked, glancing at the phone.

"Lestrade," Sherlock replied.

"Mycroft said—"

"Mycroft said, Mycroft said...I don't care what Mycroft said," Sherlock snapped. "Lestrade needs to know. He deserves to know. And he's got better resources of information than we do, in any case, right now." He returned to his texting, ignoring his companion.

John scanned the street, looking for a taxi. No matter what else, at some point they'd want to return home. He spotted black in motion in the traffic—was raising his hand—then swore.

"Incoming," he said, gesturing to the approaching cab. "Your brother's apparently still in charge of the limousine fleet."

The big black car pulled up, and the rear window rolled down. A feminine gloved hand reached out. Hanging from the index finger was a small thumb drive on a lanyard.

John peered in the window, not surprised to find Mycroft's gorgeous brunette aide—She-Who-Could-Not-Be-Named, largely because any name she gave was highly suspect. He met her calm glance. "I thought your boss didn't want us involved in this."

"Is my name 'Mr. Holmes,'?" She asked, genially.

"Could be," he replied.

"No. It couldn't," she said, firmly. "There's only  _one_  Mr. Holmes, and I'm not him. Neither is your chappie, regardless of his family claim. He's just  _a_ 'Mr. Holmes.'"

"And Mycroft's  _the_  Mr. Holmes?"

She shrugged, smiled blandly, twitched her hand to make the thumb drive swing on its lanyard.

"And you're ignoring his orders why?" John asked, skeptically.

"Because he's  _the_ Mr. Holmes," Sherlock drawled, tucking his phone away and sloping up to the car. "And because it's her job to keep him from playing silly buggers on the rare occasions his humanity gets the better of him. Isn't it?"

He was given no answer but another shrug, another bland smile, another sway of the lanyard.

Sherlock slipped a gloved finger through the loop and lifted the thumb drive free. "Will it be useful?"

Her smile committed her to nothing.

"Will you have to shoot us afterward for looking at it?" John asked.

"Only if you make it impossible for us to ignore that you have it," she assured him. "Do try not to make it impossible to ignore? I do so hate putting hits out on family."

She leaned forward, but before she could give an order to the driver, Sherlock cut in, saying, "Can you give us a lift to the Met?"

Her face apologized, but her eyes laughed as she said, "No. Sorry. Afraid not." The window rolled up—and the car rolled away.

"My theory is that Mycroft had her specially bred in Baskerville, starting with a repulsively adorable Persian kitten and adding in something smart and comic along the way."

"I see. Got it. Your basic Persian X Pratchett clone."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, John," Sherlock said, pocketing the thumb drive and stretching to flag a passing cab. "Oi!"

"So why are we going to the Met?" John asked, scrambling into the cab behind Sherlock.

"I need information. Lestrade has it," Sherlock growled, voice deeper and raspier than usual.

"He couldn't send it by attachment?"

Sherlock's face set hard. "Could have. Won't."

"Oh." John considered. "So he's doing it Mycroft's way?"

"Unfortunately, he always has," Sherlock said, and wouldn't say more.

XXXXX

At the Met, Lestrade was buried in paperwork and subordinates—business as usual. John couldn't even tell if the man is more stressed than usual, or if it was just his standard patient, slightly bemused weariness, like a man caught in an endless loop of "Norwegian Wood." He sat at his desk looking up, somehow managing to maintain his calm in the face of Sherlock, who was doing his damnedest to tower and glower and power-play the DI into submission, looking down his nose from his full height.

Lestrade probably had a great view up his nostrils, actually, John thought—and forced back a laugh. Maybe that was Lestrade's secret—hard to be intimidated by that view. Disturbed, yes. Intimidated? Not so much.

"So you and my brother are closing ranks. Again." Sherlock's voice seemed to be dropping registers quickly, today—at this rate he'd be  _basso profondo_  by dinnertime.

"I'm not doing anything with your brother right now," Lestrade said, with a grimace. "I'm  _trying_  to finish up the reports on that strangling down by the piers."

"That was two weeks ago," Sherlock sniffed.

"Yeah, and I closed it one week ago, and it's taking me this long to get it filed." Lestrade gestured to the mountain ranges of files stacked around his office. "Because life. Because paperwork, Sherlock. The kind you never have to fill out. Hell, you don't even write the blog report. John takes care of that."

"It took you a week to close that?" Sherlock said, temporarily distracted. "That wasn't even a one-patch problem! I could have done that over a cup of tea and a digestive biscuit."

"Yeah, but you never have to do it with three more cases coming in and a team to coordinate," Lestrade pointed out.

Sherlock fluttered one black-gloved hand, dismissively. "It can't be that complicated, Lestrade. You're only organizing morons, after all. It shouldn't be all that much trouble herding sheep." Then he shook his head, and narrowed his eyes. "You're attempting to distract me. It won't work. You've got access to information regarding Mycroft's arrest. Give."

"I have no access, and have been ordered to recuse myself entirely," Lestrade said, meeting the electric blue glare of Sherlock's eyes without so much as a flinch. If anything he just seemed more worn out and annoyed. "And it's a bloody good thing, too. Dammit, Sherlock, if he's going to be cleared there can't be a hint of anyone fudging things in his favour—and his association with you and with me is not going to look good to the press. Especially..." he lowered his voice, then, suddenly fierce. "Especially since the official version of things is that he's a minor bureaucrat in traffic.  _His_ version of what happened is he was ordered to apologize to a diplomat about having ordered the clamping of the tire of an embassy car. That's it."

"Wait a minute," John said. "I mean—I know it's his, er, 'official' status. But are you trying to tell us he's not, ah, well... He's not pulling rank?  _Any rank_? I mean, he's doing this as a glorified paper-pusher who gives out traffic tickets and clamps tires? The least popular government position after the Revenue department?"

"Yeah. And if the Boy Genius really wants to make things worse for him, all he's got to do is make sure the press get wind of the fact that the Mad Tire Clamp Killer is related to Not-A-Fraud Holmes."

Sherlock was angry as a Siamese cat in a grease pit. "Marvelous. The two of you have tied my hands, haven't you? I can't approach Mycroft, because I place him in jeopardy. I can't try to work with you, because, again, I place him in jeopardy—and if I push too hard I'll place you in jeopardy, too." He took a tight spin, skirts flaring: a man with no room to pace and too much angry energy to stand still. John's mouth still twitched as he fought not to grin. Sherlock had no idea how much he looked like a little girl playing ballerina sometimes. All that natural grace and lyric billowing coat sometimes got a bit out of control. "The two of you were always too good at this game. Trapping me. Limiting my choices. Managing me. I'm not having it, Lestrade. Not when Mycroft's the one in trouble for a change."

Lestrade sighed. "Sherlock, you know it would be really nice if someday you let go of that paranoid way of describing your brother and me trying to see you straight. I'm not your handler. I don't do what your brother tells me. We just both gave a damn about you. Is that so bloody hard to believe? We both tried to help. When we could, we tried to help  _together_ , because it was a lot smarter than trying to do it separately. That's all. No big conspiracy."

Sherlock considered. Then, quietly, he said, "I will believe that when John starts blogging cake recipes. I'm not finished, Lestrade. Mycroft is innocent, and for some reason he's not choosing to defend himself even slightly."

Lestrade's patience finally reached end-point. He gave a deep, frustrated growl. "Sherlock, if you bugger this up for your brother, I swear... Can't you step back, even a little?"

Sherlock's glare would say it all anyway—but the stormy exit, leaving Lestrade and John alone in the office, was definitely conclusive.

Lestrade swore and face-palmed. "Damn all Holmeses anyway."

John, sitting in an uncomfortable office chair, shook his head in confusion. "All right, what just happened? And what is it with you two? I mean, I never asked, but on the one hand you've taken crazy risks to let him work with you. But it's not like you need it. For all Sherlock's insults, you and your team are good—best in the Met. And so help me, I can't quite tell if you like each other or not, sometimes. Sherlock savages you worse than almost anyone but Molly. And now this? What was that just now?"

"Nothing. Just... Sherlock. I mean—bloody, bloody, bloody hell."

"Yeah, okay. Useful. I can do a lot with that,"John said, sardonically. Then, after a moment, he asked, "So— _are_  you Sherlock's handler?"

Lestrade moaned in frustration. "God, John. Not you, too. Don't even go there."

"It would explain a lot of the ambivalence. So—when Mycroft had  _you_  shanghaied and offered you money to spy on Sherlock, what was  _your_ answer?"

Lestrade shook his head. "It didn't happen that way. By the time it might have, he already knew my answer."

"Which would have been?"

"Same's I'd give anyone with a junkie brother trying to kill himself and drag his family down with him on the way. I'd have promised to tell him anything I legitimately could without the cash incentive." Lestrade's gaze was hard, and level. "You really don't get it, John: you lucked out. You got Sherlock now, not then. After, not before. Clean, for the most part. Occupied, for the most part. And you never had to try to find some way to cope with two Holmes brothers in crisis, not one who's mostly out of crisis."

In spite of that, he knew where his heart and loyalty lay. "I can see fighting to save Sherlock. I can see working with Mycroft for his own good. But I have to say, the man's cold as the arctic. Even learning he was working with Sherlock before... you know. It doesn't help. And years letting us twist in the wind, thinking Sherlock was dead? What kind of man does that?"

"A strong one," Lestrade said.

"You sound like you like him—as though Mycroft's got as much claim on you as Sherlock."

"You believe I'd sell out Sherlock, but can't believe I'd actually work with Mycroft because I admire him? You know, John, I think I'm offended."

John knew dangerous men. He was one. Sometimes, though, he forgot that Lestrade was a different kind of warrior. He couldn't forget now, though. Not hearing that lazy-gentle voice matched with dark eyes gone to fury. He took a deep breath, suddenly alert in a way he hadn't been until now. His hands rose, slightly. "Sorry...I just crossed some kind of line, didn't I?"

Lestrade's tension dropped down a notch, though it didn't leave. "Yeah. Sort of. Sorry—I've put up with worse accusations from Sherlock for years. And let's not even start with the things he's called Mycroft. I usually just let it go. I know enough about where it comes from to forgive him. I guess I just wasn't ready for it from you. It's hard to keep in mind just how much it means, and how deep it goes, that you weren't here until after Sherlock was most of the way to clean. It's hard to remember you really don't know that story." He shrugged. "For you Sherlock's always going to be the hero, isn't he?"

John shrugged, and grinned, ruefully. "Yeah. He's not for you?"

"He's—become a hero. Great, but not yet good. I love him. Can't help that. But he's not... I don't know. He's not the hero of the story. Maybe he gets the starring role in the second trilogy—but he's not the star of the first."

John leaned back in the chair, pondering. After a long, long silence, he said, with quiet certainty, "And Mycroft is."

Lestrade's grin was as rueful as John's had been. "Yeah. John, you never got to see how hard he fought to save that ungrateful brat. Or knew how much he risked to bring it off... not just little sacrifices from work, but these huge problems Sherlock either actively set in motion or at least made difficult. I know he got himself into MI6 once and played merry hell with their databanks. Mycroft just barely managed to keep that from turning into a treason trial—with a real chance he'd end up in the dock as well as Sherlock. And...if you ever wonder about Afghanistan? Ask yourself when Sherlock would have been at his worst. I know Mycroft spent most of a decade torn in two trying to manage the world and Sherlock at the same time. And it wasn't the world that gave him the most trouble."

John felt a bit ill just thinking about it. "Shit. So, let's see if I have this straight: when Sherlock talks about Mycroft, I should be hearing a lot of sibling rivalry compounded with addict's paranoia, the innocence of a man who thinks not knowing the solar system is somehow a virtue, and then throw in all the anger of over a decade of power-wars as Mycroft fought to bring Sherlock into something like control."

Lestrade nodded. "Yeah. If you ever really want to know how much self-discipline Mycroft has, you might want to remember he's got the ability to have a hit put out on his brother and then cover it up legally. I'm pretty sure more than once he really had to fight with that temptation. The third time around, I'm pretty sure it was best two falls out of three. And Sherlock played dirty. He could have had the best therapists in the nation—in the world, probably. But have you ever seen a therapist try to treat a resistant patient who's not just smarter than him, but miles smarter? Sherlock wanted Mycroft to pay attention to him...wanted it the same way he wanted to play games with Moriarty. The same way Moriarty wanted to play games with Sherlock. There's a reason Sherlock's been under official observation for years. He's been considered a security risk for ages...and back then he was a security risk desperate to win a round against big brother, and to be noticed. To show off for the only other person he knew who could match him."

John shuddered. "I have enough trouble dealing with him when he tries to use the coffee carafe for his chemistry."

"Tries?"

"All right. When he succeeds. Been through three just this past summer."

Both men laughed, then John said, profoundly curious, "So—you worked with Mycroft. Between you, you got Sherlock clean. You let yourself be suckered into providing Sherlock with work. And you and Mycroft are friends?"

Lestrade looked shocked. "Friends? Crap, no! You don't get it, do you? Mycroft's Secret Agent Man. 'Given you a number, and taken 'way your name.' If he's got friends, they're all on the other side of the invisible wall between the Secret Service and the Real World—for our sake as well as his. You saw what Moriarty was able to do, knowing Sherlock's friends and weaknesses. So near as I can tell, Sherlock himself is the only bit of vulnerability Mycroft's left out for the jackals to find. And he'd bring Sherlock inside the barrier if he could. I think he really hoped the hunt for Moriarty's people would bring him in for good—but I'm not surprised it didn't. Sherlock's just not cut out for it."

John started to laugh helplessly at that. "God. No. Not even a little." Then he continued to think it through, "But you would have been friends, if it had been a option. Wouldn't you?"

Lestrade gave his usual resigned shrug. "Y'know—it's not like I can imagine dragging him to the pub and shooting darts or pool. I can't imagine watching a rugby game with him. I can't even imagine lying around the flat drinking beers, watching movies, and listening to the latest albums with him. But—yeah. If it had been an option, Mycroft Holmes would have been a hell of a good friend."

"So...you must be pretty worried about him right now." John felt the little thrill that comes from managing to spin a conversation back home to its target with style and accuracy.

Lestrade's face went grim. When he spoke, his voice was rough. "Yeah. Terrified. Don't tell Sherlock—but I'm betting he did it. I don't know why he did it. Given his work it could be anything. But... It's pretty open and shut. And he's not fighting it. He's letting it all come down on him."

"You don't sound like you approve." The glare was enough to answer that question. "But if he did it..."

"He wouldn't be the first man I'd willingly let slip through the net," Lestrade said, pointedly. "Sometimes you have to recognize that there are people who need to be dead. People the law will never touch. Or never touch in time."

The memory of a dead cabby and an illegal service revolver filled the room, briefly - never spoken of, never acknowledged. Until now John hadn't even been sure it was guessed.

After a few uneasy seconds, John sighed, and scrubbed his scalp in frustrated weariness, working away the tension. "This is a complete buggered up mess, isn't it?"

"Maybe. But it's Mycroft's buggered-up mess," Lestrade said. "And just like I believe in Sherlock—I believe in Mycroft. I have to believe he's either got a way out—or a sufficient reason for taking this bullet himself. I won't take that from him, John. It may be the only thing I can give him, but at least I can give him that."

XXXXX

The entire situation was too fascinating for John to let go. He felt like he'd opened a box, only to find it to be a Tardis—so much bigger on the inside! If it hadn't been a bit too early to risk going home—Sherlock was sure to still be bumbling and buzzing around the flat like an enraged hornet—he might not have chosen to finesse a visit to Mycroft. As it was, it was too intriguing not to pull in favors from the many men and women in the Met who'd come to appreciate and admire John Watson over the years. Within a half an hour of leaving Lestrade's office, he was in the visiting room of the holding cells, looking into Mycroft Holmes' cool grey eyes.

"I do hope you're not here carrying frenzied messages from Sherlock, John," the older man said, seating himself primly. He hadn't yet been shifted into prison clothing, but he'd removed his waistcoat and jacket, and sat in shirtsleeves. His hands were neatly folded on the table between John and him, and his posture was as regal as ever.

"No. Sherlock's home sulking. But he's convinced you're innocent. I'd expect him to take some kind of action."

Mycroft tutted, fretfully. "So stubborn. You should have seen what it was like getting him to go to bed at night. Nanny Jenny was near weeping, often as not. I daresay I'll eventually have to have words with him about this."

"Yeah, likely you will," John agreed, pleasantly. "Hard guy to look after, Our Sherlock. Isn't he?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes melodramatically. "Utterly impossible. I despair of him, I really do."

John nodded, considering. "He's pretty angry, you know. Doesn't like seeing you...fall."

Grey eyes flickered. "It's a family pastime. He should understand."

"I think that's the trouble. He understands too well." John cleared his throat, and studied his own hands, lying flat on the table top. He still kept his hands neat and clean—a doctor's hands. They weren't as perfectly manicured as Mycroft's, but they were as close as most normal people ever came to that level of refined grooming. "Quite an event, today. Man dead. No explanation—just a very good suspect. Two such unlikely men, too. Minor officials—one English, one Saudi. Not men of importance. Not remarkable men. Odd. Very odd."

"I know," Mycroft agreed. "Quite peculiar, when you think about it."

"Greg Lestrade's worried about you. Doesn't like the look of the case. Doesn't like that you're not resisting, either."

If John had not been planning that one comment for the past half-hour, if he'd not pushed his attention to its limits, if he'd not being doing the best he knew how to become a Holmes, and observe as well as see, he might not have noticed the microscopic tells—the flicker of the eye, the near-nonexistent shift of folded fingers, the slight delay in speaking.

He would not have missed the trace of warmth in Mycroft's voice, though. Not even if he'd not been on alert.

"DI Lestrade is a good man and a good friend. I regret worrying him."

John sat up a bit straighter. "I didn't know you had any friends, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft didn't waver. "I don't, doctor. I merely note what is inherent in the good DI's nature. As for me? Associates. A man in my position is permitted associates, no more. But I'm restricted, not dead. There is a subtle difference. I'm able to recognize the value of what is offered, even if it can't be accepted."

"But you're still going to keep on worrying him, unless a miracle occurs?"

"That's rather the point of my restrictions. They grant people like me latitude for such lamentable choices. License to be worrisome goes with the work, I'm afraid. As for the outcome—that depends on the actions of the British legal system," Mycroft said, calmly. "But the British legal system is not widely known for miracles...and there are limits to what I can do."

John's brows shot up in unspoken disbelief.

Mycroft ducked his head, and looked at his brother's best friend from under lowered lashes. "You should be glad of that, doctor. Truly, you do not want a world in which limits are not imposed—and intelligently enforced. Even with respect to minor bureaucrats. It is right and proper that some things be out of my control."

"Any chance you'll tell any of us what all this is about?"

Mycroft considered. "Probably not, doctor. Indeed, almost certainly not."

John sighed, and rose. "Anything you want to pass on to Sherlock and Greg? Besides that they're supposed to keep their noses out of this?"

"No, doctor. That message will be quite adequate."

"Mmm...hm. Yeah. You're a righteous bastard, you know?" John said—but he said it as a soldier says it to a mate, with good-humoured admiration.

"One can but try," Mycroft said, with cheerful and amused modesty.

What John remembered, leaving, was the perfect poise of Mycroft's figure—and the faint sense of regret that hung around him, like the scent of ancient patchouli.

XXXXX

"He did it, John," Sherlock announced, passionately, as John came up the stairs to 221B. "He did it—and I know why."

"I know he did it," John said, calmly, stripping off his windbreaker and draping it over the back of his armchair. He headed for the kitchen, filling the electric tea kettle and shouting over the tap, "Lestrade knew it before you did." He didn't think Lestrade would mind him saying so, since Sherlock knew already—and he found he wanted Lestrade to get some credit from Sherlock for a change.

Sherlock was frozen in midstride when John came back out.

"Sherlock?"

"Lestrade knew?"

"Suspected would be more accurate. He didn't like the reports he was getting."

"Oh, well," Sherlock said, relaxing and waving dismissively. "He didn't  _know_ then, he merely guessed."

"And you know?"

"The thumb drive," Sherlock said. "Quite comprehensive. I must say, Mycroft's trained his aide well. Superb research and even better presentation. It's almost like having a second brain!"

"I'm sure she's dying to be Sherlock Holmes' auxiliary cerebral cortex."

Sherlock sniffed. "I don't see why not. It's what she's doing for Mycroft already. Why not aspire to higher things?"

"I still don't think she'd want to be assimilated into your neural array, Sherlock. So—what did you learn from the drive?"

"The minor Saudi official was actually one of their central spymasters. Not a surprise. But he'd been using some vicious methods to blackmail English nationals, forcing them to provide sensitive information. Mycroft had been pushing for some time to have the man either removed from the country or, better, eliminated. A rare bit of wet-work, but apparently Fayeed offended Mycroft's sensibilities rather badly. The man was fond of getting leverage by threatening school children. He also liked creating false evidence of uncommitted crimes—not that unlike Mr. Moriarty. There's some reason to think that there may have been a connection at some time."

John sprawled comfortably in his armchair. "So it was a secret service hit?"

"No. Unfortunately Mycroft's superiors repeatedly turned him down. They preferred to keep Fayeed as an active and known player, in spite of the very real damage he was doing to both the government and his victims."

"What?" John frowned...then worked it through. "Mycroft went off the reservation. He did it on his own."

"Well spotted, John. There's hope for you yet!"

John whistled softly under his breath. "Damn. But—why all the mess of going as his 'minor bureaucrat' role? And letting the police take him? Why not just act and use the whole 'British Government' thing to arrange a cover-up? God knows, he's got the power."

"You don't understand," Sherlock grumbled. "He's a complete priss. He told them, repeatedly, that the job needed doing. They turned him down. So—and this is partly deduction, rather than anything his aide sent me—but I suspect he typed up a report, told them exactly what he was doing and why, offered his resignation pursuant their review of his actions—and then moved, making sure he'd leave no trails to his real role or his true associates. Now it's in their hands; they can either decide he was justified—in which case this murder is going to be explained away in record time. Or they're going to decide he's no longer a secure risk, and he'll go to trial. Assuming he survives, he'll go to jail. As grand flounces go, he's flouncing in style."

John snorted—the image of Mycroft flouncing was irresistible. But..."Ok, I'm the last person to suggest Mycroft doesn't like a bit of melodrama. It's a family tradition, after all. But...I still don't see what triggered this. Wasn't there anything else he could have done? It all seems a bit overwrought."

"Ah...but our Saudi agent had found a link to Mycroft, you see...and had tailored the perfect blackmail package to try to force the victim's hand." Sherlock stretched a long arm, and snagged a tablet from his desk, tossing it to John.

It only took a few paragraphs for John to start swearing. He looked up, about to comment.

"No. Read it all."

John nodded, and returned to the file. It was at least fifteen minutes later that he looked up again, face dark with anger. "That's vicious. How much of this is true?"

"Oh, in terms of hard facts? Probably about four-fifths—none of which mean anything like what they're made to seem. Lestrade's bent rules most of his career, but never in ways that weren't on the side of the angels. It's the remaining lies and falsified details that turn it into pure poison."

"He'd have no career left—and no private life. He'd be a public whipping boy for decades—no, centuries to come. This is repulsive. He'd have nothing left. Nothing."

"No."

John closed his eyes, feeling a weariness set in. Some evils never seemed to die. "You said he was associated with Moriarty?"

"Possibly. He at least knew Moriarty's methods."

"Um. So...Mycroft's jumping off a high building to protect a friend. Only this time—nothing's there to catch him."

"On the contrary. He remains the British Government. I'd be betting on his survival, myself."

"Still jumping."

Sherlock was silent for a moment, then, quietly, conceded, "Yes. Still jumping."

John scowled. "This is wrong. It's just—it's wrong. Do you know what is going on over at NSY? Lestrade is up in his office worried sick about Mycroft, and hanging on with his fingernails trying to keep from stepping in and jogging Mycroft's elbow. And Mycroft's down in the damned holding cells dead-set on saving Lestrade, even if it costs him his career and maybe even his life. And you know what sucks? Neither one is able to admit they're even friends. And, worse, I can see why. The limited connection they do have is what put them in this mess."

"Yes."

"Lestrade isn't your handler. You do know that, don't you?"

"The distinction becomes difficult to make on the level we were associating, John."

"Is that a fancy way of saying you were an out-of-control addict, and they had to cope with it, and that turns everyone into a handler?"

Sherlock didn't answer.

John rose, then, and prowled out to the kitchen, waiting out the electric kettle. It offered a bit of peace.

The kettle boiled. John poured water over two sachets of tea in his mug. "Do you want tea?" he called out to Sherlock.

"Tea would be good," Sherlock conceded, coming to lean against the doorframe. A second later, he said, "In another time, and another place...maybe another world... Lestrade would have been my brother's Watson. Or something like it. Instead Mycroft weighed everything on some internal scale—and gave me to Lestrade, and Lestrade to me, knowing perfectly well that both of us would have chosen him instead. No matter how much we care about each other, it's always there. I wanted my brother...needed my brother. Lestrade wanted a friend. We were both second pick—and both too committed and interdependent by then to just walk away."

John handed Sherlock his mug, then picked up his own. He'd mixed it the way he'd liked it ever since Afghanistan: black as tar, too much sugar and creamer. "He could have taken Lestrade into the Secret Service with him, couldn't he? Greg's got the skills and brains."

"I doubt he'd have been happy. The only man I know who lives and breathes his career as much as Lestrade is Mycroft. They don't just do their jobs—they are their jobs. Retirement will hit both of them like a concrete wrecking ball. And—Greg was married. Already not what you'd call happily married, but he was married. And Mycroft is..." he shrugged, and whistled "God Save the Queen."

"So...it was the best choice Mycroft thought he could make." John didn't ask it as a question.

"Mmmm."

"There should be another answer."

"There is," Sherlock said, softly. "The problem is, unless I'm badly mistaken, Mycroft and Lestrade and I are all in agreement that the other answer would be 'epic tragedy.'"

John blew out a windy huff of air, letting the thought of the possible scope of that tragedy sink in. Working on a tightrope as high as Mycroft's, with as many snipers available to open fire - even John could see the potential for catastrophe. "Do you know how much they both care about each other?"

Sherlock sparked like forked lightning. "John, I was cared for by them at the worst time in my life. I lived and breathed because they loaned me their hearts and lungs—and on more than one occasion they performed CPR, so that's not as much of an exaggeration as you might think. I got to see them work together. It was... amazing. I was  _jealous._  I..." he looked away, skittish. "I still would be, if..."

"Understood," John said, softly. "Likewise."

Sherlock gave him a grateful look, then said, firmly. "Yes. I know how much they both care about each other. I suspect I know better than they allow themselves to know. Some pains are too deep to manage any way but through denial."

"Are they in love?"

Sherlock scowled. "That's rather beside the point. Mycroft? Probably. Almost certainly. Lestrade? No idea. Human sexuality is too complex to guess at when it's not acted on or not aware—too many variations, too many unique solutions. But it doesn't matter—because what they are really isn't about that. It's about two men who can work together to perform CPR on a convulsing addict without even needing words...and who can talk for hours afterward, or remain silent for hours afterward, and be completely at ease with each other either way."

"Ah," John said, thinking of his own hours with Sherlock. Talking, silent, bickering, laughing, racing through the streets to nab the criminal—but always on some level at ease.

They shifted back to their chairs in the living room, Sherlock delaying only long enough to light the fire.

"The Saudi agent was assassin-trained, according to the thumb drive," Sherlock said. "Top notch hand-to-hand skills. There's no chance he didn't know who he was facing, either."

"Really," John said, not sure where this was going.

"His neck was broken—with no sign of any other violence. Mycroft—stopped him. Stopped him as cold as you stopped the cabby. The hand-to-hand equivalent of one perfect killing shot."

John contemplated this, then said, eyes laughing, "Yes. Mycroft did. But, then, the Saudi really wasn't a very nice man."

Sherlock laughed, joyfully, dropping from belly laughs to giggles. John chuckled along with him, both remembering their own beginnings. "No," Sherlock sniggered. "He really wasn't, was he?"

"No, he wasn't. Now—tell me. Can we find a way to wash the powder-burns off Mycroft's hands?"

"No. But—really, John, I do think he's going to survive this. They need him. And he'd already provided more than sufficient grounds for them to act. It's really not about murder, or even license to kill. It's about whose judgement carries the day. In the end, I think the only judges that matter will find him justified, if a bit...cheeky. I must admit, I'm not even sure why he went to such lengths to strip himself down and make himself vulnerable."

"Because he honestly believes he has to be as subject to others' judgement as anyone."

Sherlock huffed. "He really is a terrible priss."

"Yes. And you know what—I'm beginning to appreciate that," John chuckled.

XXXXX

Sherlock was right. The murder at the Saudi Embassy disappeared...which, given diplomatic conditions between the Saudi Emirates and Great Britain, was a feat on a par with the disappearance of the Gherkin on St. Mary's Axe. John was impressed. Sherlock assured him that a good deal of the material on the thumb drive had probably been invoked to convince the Saudis that they had far more to lose through the fight than they could possibly win. A mysterious assassin was invoked, and the 'minor official of the traffic department' was released without further ado. For some reason no one seemed to notice that the low-level bureaucrat was met in front of New Scotland Yard by a large, sleek, black limousine containing a highly decorative and efficient aide.

No one but John noted DI Lestrade, standing at the window of his office to watch the limo pull away. John only saw because he'd made a point of being there. He'd half-hoped Lestrade could be convinced to at least stop down in the holding cells to wish the prisoner well...but wasn't surprised to be ignored.

He did succeed in convincing Lestrade to go out for a beer later. They shot some darts at the pub. They traded "Sherlock stories." They discussed music.

When John went home, he said, "You're a genius, right?"

Sherlock said, "You were in any doubt?"

"None. So, genius, I've got a job for you."

"Really?"

"Yes. Find a way to avoid 'epic tragedy.'"

"What?"

"Mycroft and Lestrade. Find an answer, damn it."

"John, I don't do people. It's not my area."

"Sherlock?"

"What?"

"Make it your area. They've been falling long enough."

 


	2. Something There is That Does Not Love a Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The response and resolution to Endless Fall. Mycroft and Lestrade reunited.

**Something There Is That Doesn't Love a Wall**

.

SOMETHING there is that doesn't love a wall,

That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,

And spills the upper boulders in the sun;

And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.

Robert Frost,  _Mending Fences_  


.

John, to his great surprise, was angry.

No. That was too small a word, and too easily seen as passive. Whatever the hell John felt, it wasn't a quiet, silent anger—though he himself was largely silent, unable to properly express it. Inside something was roaring and rattling at cage bars and threatening unholy mayhem and vile rampage.

He had no idea why. He knew the focus: Mycroft Holmes' assassination of the Saudi spymaster and blackmailer, and his own slowly won understanding of the friendship between Mycroft and Greg Lestrade—unstated, unacknowledged, and unconfessed—that had served as the final trigger setting that assassination in motion. The trouble was, he couldn't put his finger on what about it infuriated him.

It wasn't that Mycroft Holmes, the British Government, the consummate bureaucrat in bespoke grey flannel, had committed cold-blooded murder. John, having reviewed all the information available to Sherlock, had come to the rather chipper conclusion that he quite approved of cold-blooded murder in this instance. Some people really did need to be dead, and a few of them were not going to be nailed into a coffin and buried six feet under by going through proper channels. John found it reassuring to know that Mycroft Holmes could, at need, determine the correct targets and occasions, and could furthermore deal with them himself with his usual calm, ordered efficiency. It was nice to know that a man who had quite possibly been his ultimate superior officer during his years of military service knew when to delegate, when not to delegate, and had the skills to manage brilliantly in either case.

He'd never previously quite believed Sherlock's assessment of his brother. "The most dangerous man you've ever met," had seemed a case of Sherlockian hyperbole. Sherlock was all dazzling mind and action—Mycroft, to John, had appeared to be more mind and words. As an educated man, John could appreciate the value of the second; as both a soldier and a doctor—a combat surgeon—he had less use for words than for deeds. Mycroft in a single move had so outstripped any reservations John had retained as to clear the books entirely.

John had a very good idea what it took to kill cleanly, in a single move, then turn and face the music silently, waiting for others to judge. Even the cold-blooded nature of the action met with his approval: he had little place for bloody tossers gone kill-crazy. The underlying passion may have been there, but it was good to know passion didn't rule Mycroft when lives were on the line. So John's final evaluation was simply a silent, but heart-felt, "Good on ya, Mycroft!" and a mental salute that was firm and crisp enough to be offered up on dress parade.

The anger also wasn't a matter of legality. He knew of no one he respected who thought adherence to the law to be the only standard of righteous behavior. Even Lestrade, who was so straight he made straight arrows look like corkscrews, could turn a cheerful blind eye when best-outcome trumped legal procedures. John's own moral compass—which clung tight to true north—was only very little concerned with the law itself. The law was too often an ass for him to worry about it, beyond practical consequences.

It wasn't that Mycroft had, ultimately, walked free because his few superiors had determined that they preferred Mycroft at liberty, in command, and making such decisions, rather than incarcerated for a kill they probably should have required of him themselves. That was what secretive shadow governments were  _for_ , dammit, and this was one of those times John was reasonably pleased to know what his tax dollars paid for. Sweeping certain actions under the carpet was, in his opinion, a very good investment of labor and revenue in this instance. If John had been the one in charge, Mycroft would not only have walked, but would have been subjected to the embarrassment of a medal or two and a knighthood.

So—none of those were reason for his fury.

He reviewed the other elements in play. He'd known for years that Mycroft was gay. If his own gaydar hadn't alerted him, or Mycroft's own occasional mischievous games with camp excess—part of the older man's constant role play—Sherlock's occasional descent into baiting would have. "God save the Queen" indeed...

The idea that Mycroft might be attracted to someone John knew, personally?

Yes, he thought, that was a bit unnerving, but far from seriously upsetting. It was always a bit off-putting to suddenly correlate the public and private lives of people you knew too well.

He did have to concede the elder Holmes had what even he could see was superb taste. He didn't have to be gay himself to recognize in Lestrade a man anyone inclined toward men in the first place might find attractive, both physically and emotionally.

The fact that so far as he knew, Lestrade was straight?

More complicated, but John wasn't a child. He'd worked side by side with a front-line medic who was gay, and who had been in love him. It wasn't entirely easy for either of them, but they were able to work through it, as friends and as colleagues. Judging by Lestrade's own dedication to Mycroft, John suspected that even if that barrier existed and never fell, it wouldn't be enough to separate the two. Unrequited love could hurt—but John was fairly sure that being best-beloved friend could, under the right circumstances, be enough, if not all either man might dream of. If Mycroft might spend years wishing Lestrade gay, and Lestrade might equally spend years wishing Mycroft female—well...

John, looking at the bewildering tangle of incoherent, non-standardized longings he and Sherlock felt for each other, was hard put to think Mycroft and Lestrade would be any worse off—and possibly better off. He and Sherlock seemed to be pioneering entire new frontiers of ambiguity. "Not gay, likes girls" and "Not my area, married to my work" combined with "definitely a couple" was confusing as hell. John had sometimes wondered forlornly if he could work his way up to bi, with some effort—only to realize that Sherlock would then have to work his own way up to "even remotely sexually responsive." Or, hell, even sensually responsive. And then, God help them both, his flatmate would need to aim for "fit for human company," which in all honesty he wasn't as often as not.

In any case, the possibility of Mycroft and Lestrade walking some strange, unknown tightrope in the liminal spaces between heterosexuality and homosexuality, between romantic love and friendship, wasn't John's problem. Which brought him back around to the one simple question: why the hell he was so angry? It wasn't a little, quiet, back-burner anger. It was a rumbling hair-trigger rage that kept threatening to set him off.

He and Sherlock had already fought about it—repeatedly, starting with Sherlock's absolute refusal to have anything to do with trying to sort it out. That had gone over like ham and shrimp in cream sauce at an Orthodox bar mitzvah.

"My relationship with Mycroft is already tenuous enough without providing him with further reason for annoyance," Sherlock growled, eyes narrow and posture as he sat at his desk somehow hinting at feline outrage. "I've reconciled him to losing my services for anything but rare commissions for his projects. We've resolved my return to public life. I'm not about to intrude on his personal life."

He managed to say, "personal life" as though Mycroft was grotesquely perverse in having even as restrictive a relationship as he shared with Lestrade...which only set John off.

"Are you really that resentful?"

Sherlock's head shot up, and his posture was instantly every bit as perfect as John's when John chose to strike a full military stance. "Resentful? Of what? His pitiful efforts at 'friendship'? He's welcome to whatever he can scrape together after Queen and Country are done savaging his limited charisma."

"That's just what I mean. You can't imagine more for him, can you?"

"He can't imagine more for himself," Sherlock snarled, and refused to talk about it further...then or later. Following attempts on John's part were no more productive, and did not improve the overall atmosphere of the flat. The topic added almost as unsavoury an odor as Sherlock's various biological "experiments."

The one time John had spoken with Mycroft in a situation that justified even wary probes, it had been as though Mycroft were determined to demonstrate exactly why Jim Moriarty had referred to him as the "Iceman." He might as well have been murdered, abandoned on a glacier, and frozen solid for centuries. A mere, "I read the files on the Saudi," apparently warranted eyes cold enough to cause instant hypothermia of the soul, and a very quiet, "Indeed? Access to restricted information, doctor? Is this something I need to know more about?"

To which the only survivable answer was "No." If it had been anyone but Mycroft, John's answer would have been, "No- _ **hell**_ -no!" Of course, if it had been anyone but Mycroft the threat wouldn't have been as effective, which zeroed the entire thing out in any case.

As for Lestrade? John had tried bringing Mycroft up several times, and while he'd never been frozen out, he'd stopped trying. It felt too much like tormenting a helpless captive. Lestrade was willing to talk about his past association with Mycroft—the repeated rounds spent helping Mycroft shepherd Sherlock through withdrawal. The long discussions trying to decide if standard rehab and therapy was even an option for someone as bright, socially damaged, and stubborn as Sherlock. The years before John had ever arrived, of serving as Mycroft's surrogate—the nearest thing Sherlock would accept to a standard twelve-step coach. What it had been like serving as spotter, safety-net, and "professional" mentor as Sherlock had hesitantly established his role as "consulting detective."

Every word, to John's mind, was like watching the man walk gingerly across crushed glass. And not one word was in the present tense, beyond variations on the simple statement, "He's a good man. I admire him." After a few rounds John ended up feeling that attempts to manoeuvre the man into more would be akin to driving a blind dog into barbed wire.

John tried setting the entire thing aside. There were cases to distract him. He had his blog. There was work at his clinic. Telly, books, movies. The occasional game of rugger with the blokes. A man could keep busy, if he tried, right? And Sherlock was right: it was none of his bloody business in any case. What was he thinking, wanting to meddle in the affairs—or non-affairs—of his elders?

"They're old enough to make their own choices," he told Sherlock, as though it had been Sherlock pushing him to interfere. Sherlock rolled his eyes, sighed melodramatically, and muttered about obsessive-compulsive behaviours, which started a very nice squabble about pots, kettles, and which was the most soot-stained.

They  _were_  old enough. Compared to Sherlock and John, Mycroft and Lestrade were shining exemplars of adult control and reason. Two men at the peak of their adulthood—Lestrade actually peering warily over the crest of life into the long, lazy down-slope into his "golden years." John was just adult enough to know that much of the time he and Sherlock were gleefully happy to settle for an eternal thrilling boyhood, chasing bad guys and being best of friends forever. If he hadn't recognized it on his own, that nattering therapist would have pointed it out. He and Sherlock survived because of it, of course... Without it, John thought, angrily, they might have been Mycroft and Lestrade, doing the "right" thing in silent, solitary dignity, instead of the joyful thing and bugger righteousness, silence, solitude, and dignity.

And, yes—there it was again. The anger. The fury.

God, he was angry with them. He could see every single good, responsible, self-sacrificing reason either man might cite for living as they did. The reasons ranged from national security to mutual protection; from respect for each other's sexual and personal choices to concern for each other's professional standing. They were trying so fecking hard to do the right thing...

It made him want to drop-kick them repeatedly through distant goal posts. It made him want to scold them like a doctor scolding an irresponsible patient. It made him want to crack heads together.

No matter how damned confusing and unsettled his life with Sherlock, it was life—not a frozen avoidance of life, all risks set aside and all hopes with them.

And, yes.

That was it. The heart and soul of it.

"I'm going to do something about it," he told Sherlock one afternoon.

Sherlock looked up, brows knit. "What?"

"Mycroft and Greg. I'm going to do something about it."

"Oh, God, not this again," Sherlock drawled. "Can't you leave them be? You said it yourself. They're grownups. Let them choose their own path. It's  _not your business._ "

John gave Sherlock a slit-eyed glare. "They're both friends of mine. It's my business when either one's making decisions without the full facts."

"Which are?"

John didn't comment. Instead he closed his fist on the little thumb-drive hidden in the pocket of his anorak. He picked up his laptop and left, refusing to be baited into further discussion.

It was a short walk to his favourite pub. Once there he claimed a booth, ordered himself a pint of Newcastle, and set to work.

It didn't take long to extract the critical details of the Saudi's background, methods, and plans to use Lestrade against Mycroft. John did think briefly about the chance of being put on trial for leaking state secrets. Granted, he could have argued that Mycroft's PA had leaked them first—but he was fairly sure Mycroft's PA was bullet-proof. He was equally sure he wasn't.

He found he honestly did not give a rat's ass—to use a phrase well-beloved by the Yank soldiers he'd known in Afghanistan. Lestrade had a right to know what had been done and why, and where he figured into it—and to hell with Sherlock claiming it wasn't John's business, or that Mycroft and Lestrade had a right to walk their own road. Lestrade was picking a road without the full facts—and by extension, so was Mycroft.

Once he'd stripped the information down to a simple, clean skeleton, he attached it to an email, and CCed it to Mycroft, Lestrade, and Sherlock. In the body of the email all he wrote was, "Golden Drake. Meet me. John."

"Rather a waste of an email," Sherlock said, his voice mere inches away. John spun in his seat and peered over the back of the booth. Yes—that was Sherlock, lounging at his ease with his own laptop in front of him.

"You followed me?"

"If you must make trouble, well... if Holmes needs his Watson, it seemed only right that Watson have his Holmes. I suggest we move to the table at the front, though."

"Why?"

"Because I told Mycroft to wait and meet me across the street a half-hour ago, and why, then nipped in before he could get here. He knows what's coming... More or less. At least—he knows you're leaking to Lestrade. I assured him it would be better to wait until I arrived."

John raised a brow, sure there was more.

Sherlock shrugged, and grinned. "Well. It really is for them to work out on their own, isn't it? This way we'll get the perfect ringside seat as they do, won't we?"

John found himself grinning. "You're an evil, evil man, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock smirked, looking more like his brother than he knew. "One can but try."

They slipped into one of the front tables, hidden by the louvered shades.

"My word, he looks cold," Sherlock said, with a gleeful grin.

Mycroft did look cold. Scared, too, John thought, though he wasn't sure anyone would register it who wasn't at least somewhat accustomed to reading Holmesian body language. He was as still and straight as a flagpole, hands tucked into his pockets, a classic black wool scarf lapped neatly within his coat collar. He was hatless, and the chill wind was playing merry hell with his thinning hair.

"How long do you think it will take Greg to read my email and come down?"

Sherlock shrugged. "If he's not on a case? Give him half an hour. If he is? Well, I brought plenty of cash. We don't have to worry about running out of beer. If Mycroft starts looking edgy I'll text him to say I've been held up but am on my way."

"You don't think we should invite him to come in from the cold?"

"Don't be silly," Sherlock said. "That only happens in commercial spy novels. And it's not like the Iceman hasn't earned a bit of frostbite."

Mycroft stood out on the walk, still and silent—vigilant. He didn't even stomp his feet or clutch his hands under his armpits.

"He'd have a great career as one of the guards outside Buckingham Palace if he weren't already the British Government," John said, admiring the resolute stance.

"Ah-ah-ah, here comes our other pigeon," Sherlock said, nodding down the street. "Let's see how soon they spot each other."

Lestrade, dressed as usual in his cheap work suit and his well-worn black mac, had been bowling down the walk, shoulders hunched against the cold, fists shoved deep in his pockets. For a few seconds John thought he'd miss Mycroft entirely, cutting across the road to the pub before spotting the man. But then he glanced up to check ahead of himself for other pedestrians, and froze where he was. John could see the struggle of different emotions play out on his face—frustration, outrage, faint echoes of fear over all the "might have been" outcomes implied by the information John had sent him.

Mycroft stood similarly frozen, face gone so still it was beyond his normal and verging on the uncanny—the more so because it was still, but far from empty or reserved. If John had been required to choose a word to describe the look in Mycroft's eyes, it would have wavered between conviction and dread. Still, he was Mycroft—the chin was high, the posture immaculate. His umbrella hung neatly from his elbow. Only the flutter of his thinning forelock in the wind softened the pristine elegance of Burberry and tailored trousers.

"God," John murmured. "He might as well be facing the firing squad—he couldn't do the 'die with courage and honor' thing better if he were. And without a blindfold or cigarette!"

Lestrade's expression shifted to a blaze of frustrated indignation, and he said something—not in a shout, as John couldn't hear a thing, but, then, he'd heard Lestrade blow off steam before. The man could project quite effectively without having to shout. John had no doubt Mycroft, at least, could hear every word. Whatever Lestrade was saying was having an effect, too—Mycroft actually seemed to sway back an inch or two, for all the world like an animated character facing down a tirade of typhoon proportions.

Sherlock smirked, and giggled. "Forgot Lestrade comes with a policeman's vocabulary."

"You know what he's saying?"

"Something about self-sacrificing morons. With, erm—colourful adjectival invective. And a wide range of words that can be substituted for 'darn' and 'flipping.' Most of which would not be allowed in print. Ah—leading into a new paragraph regarding lack of communications skills and patronizing idiots. He's finishing off with some highly creative suggestions for what fate Mycroft deserves to suffer for being a high-handed jerk."

"Lip reading?"

"Some. But the body language says more, in this case. Lestrade is quite fluent in the choreography of anger."

"You'd know, sunshine—he's angry with you often enough."

"Yes, well—it does give me some experience in translation," Sherlock conceded, cheerfully.

Mycroft waited for the first storm to pass, then drew a breath, and said something in reply, still calm and straight and determined to maintain his bearing.

"Blah-blah-blah, national security, blah-blah-blah, personal responsibility, blah-blah-blah, exposed Lestrade to unnecessary risk, blah-blah-blah, apologies offered but would do again in a split second, without regret." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Mycroft at his worst, I'm afraid."

Or his best, John thought, silently. The man was at least willing to face the consequences of his actions—a second time. Judging by his eyes, he wasn't expecting understanding, mercy, or forgiveness.

Lestrade's hands came up from his pockets, and for a half-second he seemed ready to strangle something—anything. His fingers curved into claws, and he clutched empty air and gave an invisible neck an invisible shake, before both hands flew wide in frustration. Even John, with no lip-reading skills, could interpret the signs of a man snarling something like "Arrrrrrgggh, you  _idiot!"_

Lestrade paced, one steady step at a time, down the sidewalk. He was shorter than Mycroft, but solid and compact, and there was no question whether he had the training to at least land a solid punch. He stepped closer and closer, entered well into Mycroft's vast personal space, until he was glaring up at the younger man. He said something...

"Wants to know if my brother's going to be a pig-headed moron forever."

"And?"

"Well, Mycroft's honest at least..." Sherlock said, clearly questioning whether honesty was the correct tactic under the circumstances.

Lestrade closed his eyes for a moment in a "Please, God, help me not kill him!" expression. Then he opened them again. One hand came up—and he smacked Mycroft firmly on the forehead with the heel of his hand—a solid, if not too damaging thwap.

Mycroft looked down at him in stunned surprise, met by Lestrade's jut-jawed refusal to back down.

John could see what was coming before the two older men did. So could Sherlock. Without thinking, they started the countdown in unison...

"Three... Two... One..."

Mycroft, of all people, broke first, a slow giggle starting, his mouth squirming to hold back true laughter. Lestrade lasted only a split second longer, before chuckles clearly took over. Before John could ever have imagined, the two were in stitches, laughing until they were nearly weeping, leaning on each other, howling with it, gasping for air. Soon they were holding their ribs, fighting to stop, setting each other off each time they thought they were done. Pedestrians passed by, giving them wide berth, looking at the two middle-aged men giving way to giggling hysteria in the middle of a public footpath. Eventually they came to a slow stop, leaning with hands braced on their own knees, gasping. They exchanged rueful glances, and straightened, tidying themselves, straightening their coats, trying for a pretence of dignity... but the chuckles still kept hitting in tiny little aftershocks, and their shared glances were indeed shared—companionable, affectionate, amused. They stood before each other, calm and at ease.

Grownups, John thought. Men, not boys, for all their laughter. There was a depth of dignity and strength in both men, as they faced each other, that was impressive, even regal.

Lestrade held out a hand, then, offering a standard invitation to shake hands. John watched as Mycroft returned the gesture, and as the handshake morphed in fluid comfort to the male grasped-forearms and they pulled each other into the classic guy-hug seen at holidays and rugby matches, at class reunions and weddings. They stayed that way, in an embrace any two men could get away with—if just barely.

"All right," Sherlock grumbled. "It was a good idea after all. Shall we join them, do you think?"

John considered. It seemed as good a time to break in as any. He pulled himself up and headed for the door, Sherlock close behind him, and swung it wide, stepping out onto the concrete pavers.

Across the street two heads turned; two faces focused on the younger men. In unison, as though rehearsed, they grinned and tossed John and Sherlock the two-fingered salute before cheerfully heading away together, two men out for a walk and a talk, ambling easily down the way.

John studied their backs; the set of their shoulders as they paced along, each by the other; the occasional rising gesture of a hand; the shake of a head; the occasional sign of laughter. The tall, almost lanky ginger leaned toward the shorter, sturdier man with silver hair. They were so clearly companions, together.

"It did work, didn't it?" John asked, feeling Sherlock behind him.

"It worked, you ass. It's all sentimental garbage, you know," Sherlock said—but he said it softly, tugging John's shoulder and leading him back in to finish his ale.

.

**Reprise:**

**.**

SOMETHING there is that doesn't love a wall,

That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,

And spills the upper boulders in the sun;

And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.

Robert Frost,  _Mending Fences_  



End file.
